A Miscalculation
by Jess2708
Summary: After Dumbledore's brilliant plan misfires, and a mishap with a Time-Turner Harry is stuck in a strange time. Alone and friendless, armed with only his Gryffindor robes, a malfunctioning wand and a quarter of a Time-Tuner, Harry endeavors to survive in this new world. Trouble is, everyone in Westeros seems awfully fond of killing each other. (MOVED FROM THE GENERAL HP SECTION)
1. Prologue the First

_"I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being – forgive me – rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."_

 _\- Albus Dumbledore_

 **PROLOGUE** _ **:**_

"Well, you were right to call us in," Bode finally declared, turning back to face the rest of group, removing his glowing spectacles as he did. "There's definitely been a breach. Big one too by the looks of it. Time's been torn here. C'mon Croaker, let's show them what we're dealing with."

Croaker, who had been busy fiddling with some sort of contraption, stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow. He muttered an incantation, pointing his wand at the device, which began to spin and let out a great deal of steam. A great golden light erupted above the party of five.

"Merlin's beard," Fudge whispered, his face bathed in the golden glow, as he squinted up at the source of the light. "What _is_ that?" His voice echoed far more than it had any right to, here in the open grounds of Hogwarts.

"Why, I thought it would be obvious, my dear Minister," answered Croaker, looking back and addressing the group for the first time that morning, a crooked grin split upon his lips. " _That_ , is the breach."

Breach was one word to label the mess unfurling above their heads. Abomination was another, which Albus thought was more apt. A myriad of golden tendrils extended in every direction, all linking back to what could only be described as a crack – a jagged golden line that was about seven feet long and two feet across, suspended about forty feet above the ground. The whole thing pulsated accusingly, like it had a twisted heartbeat. ' _Your fault. Your fault._ ' The rift decreed with every beat _._ It was as if the breach knew that it was not supposed to exist, and now was casting its judgement down upon Albus, for daring to play a part in its creation.

Albus sighed. Today was shaping up to be another long day.

"So, this is how he did it?" the Minister asked, looking to Bode and Croaker. "This is how Black escaped?" he continued, when neither of the unspeakables made any move to answer him. "He tore open this – this breach, and jumped right through it? And he took Potter and what's-her-name – the Gringer girl –"

"Granger," Minerva cut in, her lips thin and her voice terse. "The girl's name is Hermione Granger."

"Yes, well, her name's not important," Fudge blustered, despite Minerva's increasingly narrowed eyes. Albus stepped forward, subtly putting himself between Minerva and the Minister. He shot her a warning look. The tensions between Hogwarts and Fudge were already high enough – Fudge hadn't yet forgiven Albus for letting Harry and Hermione escape the hospital wing last night. An irate Professor McGonagall lecturing the head of Wizarding Britain about the importance of Hermione Granger was only going to add fuel to that fire, right as she may be. Minerva simmered under his gaze, but thankfully stayed silent, although her lips were now dangerously thin.

Fudge, completely unaware of the sleeping dragon he was poking, blathered on, "What _is_ important is the girl's Time-Turner. That's how he did it, isn't it? He used her Time-Turner to open that – that _thing_ , and then nabbed Potter and the girl and hopped right through it! Nasty business, that's what it is … we should have never left the children alone with a Time-Turner – they were obviously not in their right minds … I daresay they freed that Hippogriff too … Honestly! I'll be a laughingstock when this gets out! Black sprung from right under my nose by two confounded teenagers! And they were using a ministry issued Time-Turner to boot! … and now Black's absconded with the Boy-Who-Lived … they're probably halfway to You-Know-Who already … this is an absolute disaster … why we trusted a thirteen-year-old girl with a Time-Turner, I'll never know."

Albus heard Minevra's sharp intake of breath – presumably to enlighten Fudge on the merits of said thirteen-year-old girl; Minerva had, after all, been the driving force behind Hermione receiving the contraption in the first place – and decided it was time to intervene. "My dear Cornelius, – please forgive me my choice of words here – but the past is in the past."

Quite literally, if Albus' suspicions were correct. With the rift above him, and the loss of the Dursley blood wards late last night, it was becoming all too apparent what had happened…

"If this disaster has taught us anything, it's that we should not attempt to meddle with time. It does not do to dwell on the choices that led us here; not with two of my students missing. We should be figuring out where they are, not arguing over the Time-Turner. If we focus on determining where this breach leads, we may have a better idea of the danger Harry and Hermione are in, and, Merlin willing, a way to retrieve them."

"When. Headmaster," Bode corrected. "Not where, but when. A breach like this … the time turner would have to be destroyed while it was in flux … the destruction of an hour-reversal charm like that … well, they could be anywhere in the past 500 years. And that's if we're lucky." Ah. It was as Albus had feared. Harry was lost to time.

Fudge paled considerably. "Black's loose somewhere in the past?" he asked, a hint of fear in his voice. "There's no telling what sort of havoc he could wreak … this is a danger to the security of the entire wizarding world!"

"To be honest, we're not exactly sure if Black himself went through the breach. Potter and the girl did, that much is certain. They were under the effects of the hour-reversal, so they –"

"And anything they were wearing or had with them when they used the Time-Turner," Croaker interrupted.

"– so they would have been pulled through," Bode continued, with a snide glance at Croaker. "We have no-way of telling what else went through. It might have been Black. It could have been a bird, or nothing at all. It may well have been a ruddy dementor, and we'd never know."

"So Black might still be here," Minerva inferred, looking slightly brighter. "In our time, I mean. That is some small consolation, I suppose – Potter and Granger might not be in the company of a mass murderer after all."

It wasn't actually any consolation at all. Albus would greatly prefer that Harry and Granger had some sort of supervision, even if said supervisor was Sirius Black – not a responsible adult by any definition, and after his stint in Azkaban likely not of entirely sound mind. Still, two thirteen-year-olds being stranded with Sirius was still a step over two thirteen-year-olds being stranded alone, without an adult wizard. Especially if they were stuck in a time before the statute of secrecy. The danger they would be in…

But Minerva wasn't to know any of that – she still thought Sirius a Death Eater. Albus had yet to share his revelation of Sirius' innocence with her. With all the chaos, there simply hadn't been time. He'd have to sit her down later and explain everything; perhaps over some tea and biscuits? And some lemon drops … Yes, that would do fine. Despite twelve years of offering, Albus had yet to convince Minerva to try the sweet, but he would get her to give in eventually … She would believe him, most likely; Minerva had always nursed a soft spot for Sirius and James. Why, when she found out about the illegal animagi, she even be secretly proud!

"We have no way of knowing either way, Professor," said Croaker. "Unless we find Black, it's impossible to say for sure."

"Well, erm, Minister … the thing is, well … you see, it's just that…" Bode stammered.

"We have absolutely no idea where they are," Croaker interrupted flatly. "And if we did, we wouldn't know the first thing about getting them back."

"But can't you just open the breach up and follow them through?" asked Fudge, frowning .

"If only it were that simple Minister," sighed Croaker. "But this breach is like a scar in the fabric of time, not a wound. It's already sealed shut, and there's nothing we could do to open it. No _wizard_ could. And even if we could there's telling if we would be able to come back through."

There was something about the way Croaker said wizard that gave Albus pause. No wizard could open the breach…

But he was distracted from his musings by Fudge's indignant exclamation. "So, you propose we do nothing, Croaker? This is _Harry Potter_ we are talking about! The Boy-Who-Lived! I can't be seen sitting back and doing nothing! It would be an outrage! They'd have my head! Surely there's got to be something we can do?" Fudge's voice dropped to a whisper. "How about _Summoning_? Could we _Summon_ Potter from wherever he is?"

That was a possibility, Albus supposed. Summoning could work, if they could find the right runes. He'd need to consult Professor Babbling, maybe get in a linguistics expert. It'd all have to be very hush-hush. Summoning was illegal, after all. Yet Albus was weary to go down that route. He remembered whispers and ghost stories that circled around the common room in his youth, before the ministry has stamped out the last of the druid cults in Ireland and he had heard the tales of horror from dear old Nicolas, who had, of course, been alive far longer than any ban on the art. No, Albus had never heard of a Summoning that hadn't gone wrong in some way, though it was entirely possible no-one had bothered to talk about successful Summonings; imaginably, they'd be rather boring to hear about. Still the last thing they needed was to accidentally unleash a demon on Wizarding Britain, especially now with a desperate Pettigrew at large, presumably seeking out Tom. Albus much rather explore his first idea. But Summoning was something to keep in mind, if Albus was ever really running out of options.

"Summoning has been outlawed in Great Britain since the Stonehenge Massacre of 1634," said Croaker in the same flat tone as before. "It hasn't been practised since." He glared at Fudge, daring the Minister to contradict him.

Fudge took up the challenge. "I am the Minister for Magic. I sign off on your reports. I have some idea of what goes on in that department of yours. Can we Summon Potter or not?"

"Well, Potter is a unique magical figure," answered Bode, shiftily glancing at Albus and Minerva. "He's the only known person to ever survive the killing curse. Hypothetically, it would be possible to string some runes together to create a ritual that looks for that. There's nothing we could do for the girl though. She's not linked to any special magic … unless … if it were a carnal ritual, and if the girl and Potter ever … well, ah … _intimately embrace_ , theoretically – strictly theoretically, pluck the both from the middle of the … ah, _act_ ," Bode finished uncomfortably, wringing his hands.

"There's nothing we can do for either of them," interrupted Croaker yet again. "Summoning across time isn't as simple as hopping across universes or pulling an imp from the astral plane. Summoning across time… blimey! There's a reason why no-one has ever Summoned Merlin over for tea … to pull someone through the fabric of time itself, why, the ritual would need a blood sacrifice the size of Wales!"

"Well, yes of course, I did say _theoretically_. See Minister there really is nothing we can do. Harry Potter is gone. The world will just have to accept that and move on."

"If we're lucky," continued Croaker, bending down over his contraption again. "Potter and the girl will have left some sort of message for us somewhere, and we'll discover that they've lived long full, happy lives whenever they ended up." The whirring of the device stopped and the golden gleam of the rift above them disappeared. "There's nothing more we can do here Minister, Headmaster. Bode and I will head back to the department and scour over the time room. There's a very small chance we might be able to determine what century they're in, but I'm not making any promises."

With that the two unspeakables stood up – Croaker hoisting his contraption over his shoulder – and made their way towards the front gate of Hogwarts, leaving a frazzled Minister in their wake.

"Well, that was certainly illuminating," said Albus jovially, his tone hiding the deep unease he felt. "And not quite the outcome anyone was hoping for, I daresay. Look at the time, I'm running late for a meeting. Good day, Minister. Come along, Minerva."

"Wait! Albus!" Fudge called, after Albus had begun to make his way towards the doors to the castle. "Surely there's something that can be done … something Bode and Croaker haven't thought of … Harry Potter can't be just _gone_ … please, you have to have an idea or two."

"Nope," Albus replied, his continued cheery tone disarming Fudge far better than he had expected. He did, of course, have plenty of ideas – each one more desperate than the last – but Fudge wasn't to know any of that. "I'm afraid Mr Potter is lost to us, at least for the time being. There's simply nothing that we can do but take solace that our wayward students have lived, grown and died wherever they landed, which ideally is quite far from Black. Far better to forget about all this time-travel nonsense, if you ask me, and focus on the here and now. When we get the time, - pardon my poor choice of words there, Cornelius – we can follow that charming unspeakable's advice, and comb through the history books to see if they left us any notes."

Ah, that was a brilliant idea, it was far past time that Albus caught up with Bathilda over tea. "Now," he continued, inwardly jumping with glee at Fudge's flabbergasted expression. "I'm afraid my schedule is simply too busy for me to at the moment – I'm sure you appreciate the sentiment, being Minster for Magic – see, I have to focus on preparing the end of year feast. Maybe we could meet some time during the summer break? Of course, if you simply can't wait, I think I spy Rita Skeeter by the front gate. I'm sure she'd love to talk about it. Forgive me Cornelius, I'd love to stay and chat, but I really do have a meeting to get to. Good day! Come along, Minerva."

Minvera, who was staring at Albus as equally gobsmacked as Fudge, closed her mouth, opened it and closed it again. It took her a few seconds to snap herself out of her stupor, before she followed Albus towards the castle, her brisk pace betraying her anger. She was only just able to contain herself until Fudge was out of earshot.

"Albus, what was that?" she hissed as the minister grew smaller behind them. "Two of your students – two of my Gryffindors – are missing, possibly in the company of Sirius Black, and you have the audacity to say we best forget about them? Take solace that they have lived and _died_? Your _schedule_ is too busy for you to worry about _two of your_ _own students_? And what, because you're focusing on the _house feast_? The house feast! … Honestly Albus, I've heard you say some questionable things, but this … this takes the cake… The house feast!"

Her voice was rising with every word she uttered, reaching a shrill level that Albus hadn't been subjected to in years. If she spoke any louder, the minister was sure to hear, even if he was at front gates by now. Albus had known this lecture was coming since he stepped between Minerva and Fudge. It wasn't often that Minerva was this worked up, but when she was, it was always better to let her rant to blow off steam.

"And Black! He's a murderer Albus! He's had it out for Harry the entire year and now there's a good chance he has him. But _no_ , the house feast is more important. Not to mention that his entire blasted situation is because of your negligence. Y let Hermione use the Time-Turner right under your nose! You knew she had it, and you knew they were confounded … You had to sign the same papers, I did to get her the blasted thing. May I remind you what was on them? ' _If the minor is ever observed to not be of sound mind_ _the device must be removed from their person immediately'_ … I never would have believed you could let this happen … and the Minister! The Minister! The nerve of him … He doesn't even pretend to give a damn about Hermione. You heard him and those unspeakables – they were ready to abandon her if there was a chance they could summon Harry back … or that ' _intimate embrace'_ … I mean, really Albus … you and I both know that's never going to happen. If they try and summon Potter back, they'll leave Hermione behind. And her parents! Good Lord Albus, what are we going to tell her parents? They'll be in uproar after this, just you wait. You didn't have to deal with them last year, when Hermione was petrified … I'd rather fight that basilisk, then go through that again… Oh, Albus what are we going to do?" finished Minerva, chest heaving and her eyes teary. If Albus were any braver he'd pull her in for a hug, but as it was he wasn't quite willing to risk it.

To be quite honest, Albus wasn't sure how to answer Minerva. Ashamedly, he hadn't considered Granger's parents nor Harry's guardians. The Grangers were a completely different situation from the Dursleys, who would take the news apathetically at best, and gleefully at worst. Granger's parents… well, Albus could always send a letter first, so he didn't have to be present for the initial meltdown.

Minerva was blaming him for the whole situation too. Rightfully so; the pair of Gryffindors had disappeared from under his nose. Minerva must never know that it had been Albus who planted the idea of using the Time-Turner in Granger's head. If she ever found out… Albus shuddered involuntary. Some things were best not thought about, some secrets best left buried – for the greater good.

Luckily, Albus was saved from having to come up with something to placate Minerva by the timely arrival of Pomona Sprout.

"Professor McGonagall," she called, catching the pair right outside the main doors. "I'm so glad to have caught you."

"Professor Sprout, I do hope this is important. The Headmaster was about to enlighten me with the reason behind…" Minerva trailed off, catching sight of the sullen boy trailing behind Pomona.

Albus was ashamed to realize that he could't recall the child's name. Normally, he made an effort to at least learn the surnames of all the first years by the school year's end, but with his removal from the Hogwarts last year, and the chaos surrounding Black and the dementors, he had gotten quite lax. He wasn't even sure what year the boy was in. He was a Gryffindor – Albus could determine that much from his tie, which explained why Pomona had brought him here. If he made eye contact then he'd be able to skim his name from the top of his mind but the boy staring steadfastly at the ground. The boy was obviously in trouble for something or other, and outside of class, the duty of determining punishment generally fell to the Head of House, in this case Minerva. But beyond that Albus knew nothing. Vague memories of the boy sitting at the Gryffindor Table at meals floated to him – but did he sit with the Creevey boy and the Weasley girl and the other second years or was it the Brown boy and his gaggle of first years?

Minerva however, certainly knew who he was. Her eyes flicked between Pomona and the boy, who was still very interested in his shoes.

"Again?" she asked incredulously. The boy – was his name Ryan Strong? No, that was a Hufflepuff, but Albus was sure the name was similar – shrank under her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck nervously; his fingers catching in his scruffy auburn hair. "This is the third time this month!"

"I can't help it," mumbled the child, – Richard? No, that wasn't quite right – his vowels with an exotic twang and his eyes boring holes into his feet. "He misses me, is all. He didn't mean to scare anyone, honest. If I could just bring him in to the castle sometimes –"

"How many times do I have to tell you," sighed Minerva, "that the only pets allowed at Hogwarts are owls, cats and toads. I need you to work with me on this. We've already made concessions, in light of your situation – no-one else is allowed to keep a pet in the forest."

Actually, this boy was seeming more familiar by the second – he was the foundling. Was it Rodrick? No still not right.

"He's not a pet! He's a –"

Whatever the boy was going to say was lost to Albus, who had taken advantage of Minerva's distraction and slipped into the Castle unnoticed. She'd have his head for that later, there was no doubt, though hopefully Albus But Albus did have an appointment that he was running late for; and considering the self-esteem of young Neville Longbottom, it wouldn't do to keep him waiting any longer then strictly necessary.

Continuing what was becoming a streak of luck, Albus was able to reach his office with no further distractions. Longbottom was already inside and was absently petting Fawkes. For a painful moment there was another young Gryffindor standing in front of him, staring down at the ashes of his phoenix, but the vision was gone as soon as it appeared. He cleared his throat.

"P-professor Dumbledore, sir" stuttered Longbottom, leaping away from Fawkes in his fright. "S-sorry, the door was open, I didn't mean t-to intrude."

"It's quite alright Mr Longbottom," replied Albus, his jovial tone genuine this time. "I'm afraid I was unavoidably detained. Please take a seat, I fear we have lots to discuss."

Longbottom did, and seemed to calm a smidge once he was in a chair. He had stopped trembling at least, which was a start. He allowed himself a moment to look over the boy. Sweat clung to his sandy brown hair and his round face. It was almost impossible to see any trace of Frank and Alice, in the boy. If Albus didn't know any better, he'd assume they weren't related. But the boy had his moments. Moments when the true strength of his character shone through – such as the time he stood up to Harry and compatriots when they went after Quirrel. Longbottom had potential, however hidden it may be. Albus was going to do his best to bring that potential to the surface.

Not that he was writing off Harry, by any means. No, not at all. He was already formulating a plans upon plans to bring Harry back. Nevertheless, the moment he discovered the Dursley blood wards had fallen, Albus had setup this meeting with Neville. If the events of the past twenty-four hours had made anything clear, it was that all plans could go awry, even the best laid, – which admittedly, this one wasn't – and he should always have a backup. So, while Albus didn't believe that he had seen the last of Harry Potter, he was going to train Longbottom as if he had. And if – no, when – Harry returned, there would be no great loss. In order to bring about the final death of Voldemort, it wouldn't do for Albus to put all his eggs in one basket.

"Why did you want to see me, Headmaster?" asked Longbottom timidly, though thankfully without his stutter.

Before Albus could answer they were both distracted by a popping sound, which heralded the sudden appearance of a particularly familiar house-elf.

Albus stared at the elf.

Longbottom stared at the elf.

Albus' eyes twinkled.

The elf stared at Albus.

Bemused, Albus tried to figure out where he had met this elf before. It wasn't one of the Hogwarts elves – it was wearing _clothes_ , for one thing.

"Dobby is sorry for popping in sir, but Dobby is very nervous," explained the elf speaking at a mile a minute. So, this was Lucius Malfoy's old elf – the one Harry freed at the end of last year. "Dobby is needing work and Dobby is hoping Professor Dumbledore is giving Dobby a job."

"Actually," said Albus, a million ideas flying together to form the basis of a plan, "I might have just the job for you. If you wouldn't mind waiting outside – I'm in the middle of a rather important meeting; it won't take to long.

The elf looked at Longbottom, apparently noticing for the first time that Albus wasn't the only wizard in the room, be nodding and apologizing profusely as he made his was towards the door.

This was perfect. If Albus' idea had any merit to it and if he could convince Dobby to follow along, they would be just that one step closer to finding Harry. Oh, and Granger too. Still, even if Harry's return was becoming more and more likely, the boy wasn't back yet, so Longbottom would still need training.

Hang on. Was Albus just imagining things or could he faintly hear Minerva's voice calling his name, growing steadily louder?

"Would you mind closing the door on your way out," he added to Dobby. Better safe than sorry.

"Now, where were we?" Albus asked, turning back to a nonplussed Longbottom after Dobby had shut the door. "Ah yes, you were asking why you were here. Well, Professor Snape tells me you haven't been performing very well in Potions." Longbottom paled, obviously expecting some sort of punishment. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Why, I must confess that I've always been quite rubbish at Divination. I am however, quite adept at Potions, and I've found quite a bit of free time in my schedule next year." A lie, of course. Albus had a busy schedule on a good year, and with Hogwarts hosting the Triwizard Tournament, his free time would be very limited. But it was far too early in the game to let the boy in on how much he was rearranging his life for him. "So, what do you say, Mr Longbottom? With me as your tutor, I'm sure we can have you topping Potions by Easter."

Longbottom fainted.

Oh dear. Albus was really going to have his work cut out for him next year.

* * *

 **[INSERT SPONGEBOB "A FEW HOURS LATER" SIGN HERE]**

* * *

Several hours later Dobby the free house elf once again sat before a much more mellowed Professor Dumbledore.

"Professor McGoonagee is being very cross with the Headmaster," Dobby noted.

"Professor McGonagall, Dobby," corrected the Headmaster. "And quite so. Her walking in on young Mr Longbottom passed out on the floor, when she is already quite vexed with me, is quite possibly the worst case of bad timing I've ever encountered."

Dobby nodded.

"Is it true?" the elf asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over the office. "What Professor McGoona-McGonagall is saying? Harry Potter really is being missing?"

"I'm afraid it is," Dumbledore replied.

Dobby let out a wail loud enough to wake the sleeping portraits adorning the office walls.

"Harry Potter! Gone!" sobbed the house elf, his face in his hands. "Harry Potter cannot be gone! He is too great! Too good! How can Harry Potter be taken by the nasty Black to where no wizard can follow? Dobby cannot believe it"

"If I do recall," the Professor cut in, "you asked me for employment earlier. It just so happens that I have a new position open that I believe you would enjoy."

Dobby paused his tears, eyes peeking out at the former transfiguration teacher between his fingers.

"Dobby cannot be enjoying anything when Harry Potter is gone!" hissed Dobby.

"Yes, Harry Potter is beyond the reach of _wizards,_ " Dumbledore agreed. "Not house elves. How would you like to be the one to find him?"


	2. Prologue the Second

**Ok, so I really don't know why I'm uploading this. My plans for continuing this fic mainly involve turning it into a crossover, but this is the only other chapter of purely HP that I've written, so maybe some of you will be interested in reading it... Unbeta'd trash as always.**

 **Anyway, read on, and be sure to leave a review if you liked it. Or hated it. Or were just meh about the whole. Personally, I like it a lot, and I feel I've gotten far better at mimicking JKR's style of writing**

 **Enjoy, and as always, cursed child isn't canon. - Author out.**

* * *

 **PROLOGUE PART TWO**

Miss Marjorie Dursley, of Number Seventy-Six Wakefield Road, was proud to say that she was perfectly normal, thank you very much. She was the last person you'd expect to be involved with anything strange and mysterious, because she just didn't hold with that nonsense.

Marjorie was a rather accomplished dog-breeder, if she did say so herself. Her bulldogs often took first place at the local shows, and her Ripper had even been a finalist at Crufts in Birmingham once. She was a large beefy woman with barely any neck, and sported an absurdly large moustache for a woman, though no-one had ever dared to comment about it to her face. At age forty-two, Marge was a still a bachelorette – perfectly respectable at her age, mind you – although she did have her eye on her next-door neighbour, the retired Colonel Fubster. She didn't have any children, and was perfectly happy about that, she couldn't stand the nasty things. In fact, there was only one child she had ever been able to stomach, the exception to her rule, and that was her nephew Dudley.

Marge's brother Vernon had married well below his station, and whilst she had not initially approved of his bride, all had been forgiven after Petunia had birthed a healthy boy. At age fourteen, Dudley had become a shining young gentleman, and in Marge's opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere. There was nothing in the world that Marge enjoyed more than doting on him, and it was her deepest regret that she couldn't see Dudley more often. It couldn't be helped though. Vernon and Petunia lived in Surrey for Vernon's work – he was a director at a successful drill frim called Grunnings – and that was far too close to London for Marge's liking. She couldn't abide big cities. No, the countryside was the place for her, where she could spend her days with her bulldogs and the Colonel. That didn't stop her from visiting whenever she had the opportunity, which wasn't too regular because she couldn't bear to be apart from her bulldogs for long.

Miss Dursley had almost everything she ever wanted, yet there was one blight upon her life. You see, Petunia had a nephew named Harry; a nasty, dreadful boy Dudley's age, that Marge preferred not to think about. After Petunia's tramp sister, and her good-for-nothing husband had gotten themselves killed in car accident – drunk-driving, no doubt – the baby boy had been unceremoniously dumped on their doorstep. Vernon and Petunia had, out of the goodness of their hearts, taken Harry in, fed him, clothed him, and he had repaid them with nothing but years of trouble. If it had been up to Marge, the brat would have been dumped at the closest orphanage, or better yet, thrown in the nearest river. It wasn't up to Marge though, and Petunia, who had always been a bit too soft, had convinced Vernon to raise the boy, out of misguided grief for her horrible sister. The insolent child had gone on to terrorise the neighbourhood, as Vernon informed Marge whenever she visited, until he had finally been shipped away to St Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, an institution for mentally subnormal and violent teenage delinquents. Unfortunately, St Brutus' was still a school, and was closed for the holidays so Vernon and Petunia had to put up with the boy each summer.

The little criminal had been there when Marge had visited last year, and he had been as disgustingly foul as ever. The whole memory of her visit was unusually hazy to Marge, so she didn't often dwell on it. Instead she focused on her other visits whenever she thought of Harry, which only happened occasionally; her mind liked to wander while she sipped her morning cup of tea. Sometimes she couldn't help but think of the burden he had been on poor Dudley's childhood.

It was on one fine morning like this, when Marge was musing over how the brat had tried to cheat Dudley in musical statue at his fifth birthday, that she heard a surprising knock at the door. Her unexpected visitor hammered at the door four times, and as she got up to answer, Ripper following at her heels, Marge wondered who it could be. Colonel Fubster was her only regular houseguest, and he was away at an army reunion. It couldn't be the postman, he was petrified of her dogs. She hoped it wasn't a door-to-door salesman. Marge abhorred the scheming conmen who would try to peddle off second-rate goods or worse ask her to donate to a _charity_ , and they had long since learned to avoid calling at number seventy-six. But, to her surprise, she didn't find any salespeople on her front porch, nor a terrified postie. It wasn't even Colonel Fubster, returned early and popping in to share a cup of tea. It was one of the last people Marge expected to turn up on her doorstep on a Thursday morning, for he should have been at work in London.

It was her brother, Vernon.

He wasn't alone. There were three other men crowding her doorstep as well. Vernon had never been a small man by any measure – Dursleys grew large, her grandmother had always said – but today his girth threatened to block his companions from view. Vernon's face was uncharacteristically pale and Marge could spot sweat forming on his forehead, which was odd, because there was a nice breeze blowing and it wasn't hot out at all. If Marge didn't know any better, she'd say Vernon was nervous. He was never nervous though; her father had raised a strong, fearless Dursley man, not some balmy, pansy milksop. Vernon's companions were all new faces to Marge, but they were all dress in fine business clothes. Perhaps they were colleagues of Vernon, in the area for a business trip and they decided to stop by for a surprise visit.

"H-hullo, Marge," stammered Vernon, wiping the sweat from his face. What was up with him? He sounded almost afraid. "May we come inside?"

Marge, who was still recovering from the shock of so many unexpected guests, nodded blankly. Vernon hurried into the house, his companions following. Without Vernon in the way, Marge got her first proper look at the others as they brushed past her into the house, Ripper sniffing excitedly at their heels. They were unremarkable men, each one not particularly good-looking. The first man, the tallest one, was all prim and proper – his suit had every crease ironed out, his black hair was parted and combed immaculately to the left – and his face seemed to be permanently etched into a frown. Ripper growled at him as he walked by, and Marge had to pick the dog up to calm him. The other two men were laxer, if only slightly. One had a mop of rather frizzy brown hair and the last man, who looked great deal older then the other two – Marge would eat her hat if he was a day under sixty – was thin and balding, only wisps of grey hair clinging to his scalp. He was carrying a rather large briefcase, as was the tall man. They both were made of well-polished black leather and looked very expensive.

All three followed Marge into the sitting room, where Vernon had already planted himself in his favourite armchair. Once they were all seated, Marge finally found her voice. "Can I offer anyone a cup of tea?"

The brown-haired man brightened at that, but the tall man answered for them all. "No, no, Miss Dursley. Don't trouble yourself. I'm afraid we're running on a rather tight schedule. Sit down so we can begin," he drawled. His voice had a distinct American twang. Ruddy foreigners!

"Oh," replied Marge. It was all she could think to say. Normally she would have given the man a piece of her mind for refusing her hospitality, and being such a rude houseguest, but he had such an imposing air about him; even Marge could see that this wasn't someone to be trifled with.

"Now, Miss Dursley, my associates and I represent an organisation called the Veritas Foundation for Global Wellbeing, which your brother has recently joined," he began after Marge had sat down. She had never heard of any Veritas Foundation, but it sounded elite, and if Vernon had joined, it must be doing something right. Unless it was a charity and they had somehow managed to hoodwink her brother… Vernon was smarter than that though, so Marge wasn't too worried.

"My name is John Smith, and this is Doctor Ian Underhill," the tall man continued, nodding to the older man, who was seated to his left. "Obviously, you already know Vernon, and my final associate is…"

"Doctor David Granger," interrupted the frizzy-haired man proudly. "Of Granger and Granger Dental. The leading oral health specialist in the greater London…"

"Now, Doctor," Mr. Smith cut in, "don't advertise to Mrs Dursley. I'm sure she doesn't want to hear it."

Smith was right; Marge didn't want to hear it. She wasn't fond of dentist and doctors; namby-pamby, smarmy people, who thought themselves superior because they had spent a few more years at school and received a piece of paper. Marge never normally got sick – those strong Durley genes – and she didn't believe in fillings and dentistry – she could take perfectly good care of her teeth on her own, thank you very much – so she had been lucky enough not to have visited a medical centre for the past few years. She was liking this Granger less by the second, he looked every bit a typical dentist.

"What brings you here?" Marge asked, pushing her hatred of the medical profession to the back of her mind. "And what does your foundation even do?"

"To answer your first question, Miss Dursley, we're here because we believe you can be a great help to us," said Smith, who was quite obviously the leader of this little group. "And as to your second – well, Veritas seeks to improve life for everyone on the planet. We do aid work in Africa and South Asia, run soup kitchens at Christmas, support orphanages, that sort of thing.

Good Lord! They _were_ a charity. To think Marge had let them _inside_ her house! And Vernon had been hoodwinked into this nonsense too. Why, if her Father could see this, he'd be turning in his grave.

"Of, course," Smith continued hurriedly, seeing the anger flash across Marge's face. "That's all just a public front. Our real purpose is a great deal more important, and something best kept secret from the general public, at least for now. You see, Veritas aims to identify and expose group of dangerous and abhorrent individuals, who are scattered across the world. These people practice satanic rituals and can manipulate the paranormal in a way that can only be described as magic. They call themselves witches and congregate in secret societies all across the globe."

What was this man on about? Witches? Magic? This was worse than a charity. Smith was insane. This was a group of jumped-up madmen, who had somehow brainwashed Vernon. Why, they were probably a cult! They'd hoodwinked Vernon out of all his money, - probably his house and car too – and now the thought they could try the same tricks on his sister. Well, Marge wasn't one to be fooled quite so easily. Marge had always known that she was the smarter Dursley sibling, but it still rankled her to think that Vernon could believe this rubbish.

"Codswallop!" Marge declared. "Rubbish! All of it! Vernon, surely you don't believe this nonsense. Magic … witches and wizard living among us … the whole thing's absurd. If magic was real, I think people would have noticed by now. You've no proof of any of this."

"Proof?" Granger spat. "I'll give you proof. There's stacks of spellbooks sitting in my house, flooded with those enchanted moving pictures. They indoctrinated my daughter … my sweet Hermione … said she was one of them, they did … oh yes … she got a magic stick, bought their books and went of to their little school … then, last June, what happens? Oh, we get a letter, delivered by one of their blasted owls … 'Mr and Mrs Granger, we regret to inform you that due to a mishap with a time-turner, your daughter Hermione has been lost in time and is likely in the company of convicted criminal Sirius Black. Unfortunately, due to the nature of time travel, we are unable to attempt to retrieve her. We can only hope that wherever and whenever she is, she escaped Black and lived out a long and happy life.' … Hermoine, my only child goes missing from their school, and they tell us about it in a _letter?_ And she's with Black … he's a bleedin' mass-murderer for Chrissake … _unable to attempt to retrieve her,_ my bloody arse!"

Granger finally finished his tirade and leant back in his seat, red-faced, his chest heaving.

What the ruddy hell was that? Lost in time? Their story got more ridiculous with every word. "Spellbooks?" Marge asked Vernon incredulously, latching on the most coherent of Granger's arguments. "You believe all this nonsense because they have some books? Any dolt can write a book, you should know that. That's no proof at all."

"Erm, well Margie … it's not like that," Vernon spluttered. "it's just that … well you see … the thing is …"

"It's Potter!" he finally blurted out.

"Your brat nephew? What does he have to do with any of this."

"He a freak … I mean a wizard. He's one of them. Abnormal little brat. He set a snake on Dudley once – I told you about that – but he bloody went and disappeared the glass of its enclosure! His parents were just like him – witches, the lot of 'em. Bloody irresponsible too, went and got themselves blown up, and of course we get saddled with the kid. Had to keep him too – they put some bloody whatzits on the house. Can't ever move either."

He stopped to draw a breath and then continued ranting on. It was obvious that he had wanted to tell Marge about this for years.

"We tried to stamp the nonsense out of him, but nothing ever worked. He turned eleven and went off to that freak school of his and comes home threatening Dudley. He blew up one of Petunia's cakes and ruined what could have been the biggest deal of my career. Then what does he do? He runs of in a ruddy flying car before I had the chance to give him the thrashing he deserved. And none of the others are any better, mind you. Their groundsman – big, lumbering oaf of a man – chased us halfway across the country and gave Dudley a flippin' pig's tail. Had to take him to the hospital to get it removed. And then now, we get a letter from them saying the boy's gone and gotten himself kidnapped by a mass-murderer! Stolen from their school, right under their bloody noses. Now Petunia's beside herself with grief – the boy is family after all, even though he's a useless twat – and what do they do about it? Nothing. No search party, or alert, or anything. Not even a ruddy thank-you for raising the boy! So, I went and did my research on magic, – try and look for the boy to cheer Petunia up – and that's where I found these Veritas people. They're trying to make these wizards accountable for their actions; expose them to the world and make them pay for what they've done … I say it's about bloody time!"

Marge's head was spinning. She hadn't heard Vernon sound this passionate about anything since … well, she'd never heard Vernon sound this passionate about anything. It was ridiculous – the whole concept was balmy. But if magic was real; if this wasn't a sick joke, then Harry Potter was exactly the sort of person she'd expected to be involved with this freakish nonsense. And Vernon sounded so sure of himself too … besides, Marge had always wondered how the scoundrel had loosed that boa at the zoo … there had always been something _unnatural_ about him, she just hadn't been able to put her finger on it.

"Okay," said Marge, decided to hear Vernon out on this, at least for now. "Suppose you're right, and this magic nonsense is real … and that Potter hellspawn is one of them … always knew there was something rotten about him … if it's all true, where do I come in to it? I want no part in it, mind you. No spells, no sorcery. I'm not getting involved with any of it."

"Ah, but Miss Dursley," said the American, a sad smile on his face, "I'm afraid you're already involved. We have reason to believe that you are under an enchantment. Tell me, what do you remember about the last time you visited your brother?"

Marge's face blanched. She knew where this conversation was going. "You mean to tell me, that when I visited, that – that hellion, did _something_ to me?"

"Well, erm … yes," Vernon managed, his nervousness suddenly back. "He blew you up like a ruddy balloon. You were stuck to the kitchen ceiling for hours. Then more of the show up and fix you, but they did something to your head, and the next day your barely remember your way around the house."

Marge went purple. A balloon? Blew her up like a _balloon_? And they had messed with her mind? What did that even mean? "They meddled with my mind?" she screeched in outrage. She'd last seen boy over a year ago, and they had done something to her then. She hadn't even realized it; hadn't noticed a single thing out of the ordinary, not for all that time. Was her mind still afflicted? Was it permanent? Were these even her real thoughts?

"Yes, it's rather unfortunate. These wizards have a way of erasing people's memories. It's how they've managed to stay hidden for so long," Smith explained. "Everyone that stumbles across them loses all recollection of their encounter, and the wizards make off with all evidence of their existence. Only a select few a permitted to retain their knowledge – direct relatives for instance, like your brother and Doctor Granger here. Veritas has only continued to exist because we've been just as cautious as them – clinging to the shadows, not taking any risks. But, with your help Miss Dursley, that's all about to change."

"Me? I'm just a dog breeder. What am I meant to do?"

"Miss Dursley, you are far more important than you realise," said Smith, turning towards the balding man. "Doctor Underhill, if you please…"

Underhill began opening his briefcase, while Smith continued speaking.

"Doctor Underhill here has been hard at work developing a chemical compound that we hope will reverse the effects of the wizards' memory wipe. Due to the nature of memory loss, and own reluctance to risk any of our own operatives – there's rumours these wizards can read minds – we've had quite the shortage of test subjects."

Underhill produced a wicked looking needle from the briefcase, and began extracting an amber liquid from a bottle.

"No, Doctor," said Smith, frowning at the needle. "Try Oblivium-Five this time."

"Five?" squeaked the doctor, speaking for the first time. His voice was high and nasally. Marge hated it instantly. "I-If you're sure. You're the boss, boss."

He placed the needle back in the briefcase and pulled out a transparent water bottle and tablet instead. He popped the tablet in the bottle where it began to bubble away, dissolving within seconds. Then he held the bottle towards Marge, who eyed it warily.

"With this, Miss Dursley, we can break the enchantment on you, and you can recover the parts of your life that the wizards have stolen from you," said Smith eagerly, gesturing at the drink.

It looked so innocent and unassuming – a plastic water bottle, like one sold at a grocery, unlabelled and three-quarters full. There was no visible sign of anything amiss; the tablet had dissolved so well, that Marge couldn't see a trace of it in the water. Still though, Marge didn't really want to drink it.

Vernon nodded at her reassuringly. Against her better judgement, Marge took the bottle from the doctor and, hesitantly took a sip. It tasted just like normal water. If Marge hadn't seen the tablet dissolve, she would have never known it was there. The drink was quite refreshing, actually. Marge hadn't realized how dehydrated she was – she had never finished her tea, after all. Before she knew it, she had downed the whole bottle.

For a moment everything was normal, but then images exploded throughout her mind. Foreign memories danced across her vision. She was at Vernon's, having dinner in their dining room. The potter boy was giving her cheek. Then she was swelling – swelling so very large, and floating out of her seat. Sounds flooded her ears too – Petunia's shrieks, Ripper's frenzied barks and Vernon's bellows at the boy.

"COME BACK IN HERE!" he had yelled. "COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT." But the boy – as predictably disrespectful as ever – hadn't listened. Instead he had fled the house. Marge had been stuck to the ceiling until _they_ had arrived.

There had been three of them, all dressed in the most unusual, outlandish get-up Marge had ever seen. Some sort of medieval robe. Ridiculous! They had popped into the kitchen out of nowhere, pointed sticks at Marge, and before she knew it, she had been returned to normal. After that, the leader of the group had pointed his stick at Marge and the memory ended.

"My word," said Marge, dazedly leaning back in her chair. "It's all true. It happened – all of it. That blasted boy actually blew me up! The nerve of it! It was all just like you said, Vernon. And then they showed up – freaks in hoods. They got me down from the ceiling and did something to my mind!"

"Well that looks to be a success," Smith said immediately., a smug smile gracing his face

He turned to Granger, "You will be upping your donations, now you've seen us in action, doctor? Don't doubt us any more, do you?"

"Of-of course not," spluttered the frizzy-haired man. "And yes, yes. You're obviously getting some real work done. If it money you want, you'll get it. Anything to get justice for Hermione."

"Well, that settles that, then," Smith declared. "We're done here."

With that he stood up and began to leave the room. His colleagues followed, Vernon included. Marge was astounded.

"You can't just _leave_ ," she all but yelled at their retreating backs. "Magic is real. There's freakish people doing lord-knows-what out there. You can't just tell someone that and then walk away! Come back! Vernon! VERNON!"

But none of them listened to her, not even her brother. All Marge got was a half-hearted promise from him as they were halfway down the driveway.

"I'll, erm… I'll call you tonight," he called hastily over his shoulder. Then they all got into their cars and drove off, leaving Marge with only Ripper for company.

She waited fruitless for Vernon to come to his senses, turn around and come driving back, for far too long, before she went inside. Once in the kitchen, she immediately fixed herself another cup of tea, and spiked with quite a bit of brandy.

Despite the alcohol, she was still flustered for the rest of the day, and spent most of it sitting by the telephone awaiting Vernon's call. He didn't end up calling that afternoon though, nor in the evening. Eventually, once it got to nine-thirty, which was well past Marge's usual bedtime, she decided to call it a night and went upstairs to shower and get ready for bed. She wasn't sure how she was going to sleep though; her whole worldview had been tilted on its side, and her mind was buzzing with questions.

Marge did end up sleeping that night, at least until she was awoken by a clanging downstairs. At first, she thought it was Ripper. He had snuck into the kitchen before and made a racket trying to get at a midnight snack. But no, Ripper was still curled up be her side, snoring away. He was advanced in age now, and quite a bit deaf, so it seemed he had slept through the noise.

Marge checked her clock. _Eleven-thirty._ All her other dogs were in the kennels, so what could have made that racket?

Shrugging on her nightgown, she left her bedroom to investigate.

"Who's there?" she called down the stairs, into the darkness. "Show yourself. I'm warning you – I'm armed."

Marge didn't have any weapons, but she did have a mean right hook – "I'm not raising any child that doesn't know how to fight," her father had always said.

"Terribly sorry," came a voice from the kitchen. "Couldn't find the light. Ah, here it is."

That voice … Marge recognised that American accent. It could only be…

The light flared on and Marge's suspicions were confirmed, as John Smith's face came into view, peeking out from the kitchen. Marge glanced at the front door, which was still bolted shut; locked tight.

"How did you get inside?" she questioned. "More importantly, what are you doing here?"

"Well, Marge Dursley, at the foundation, there's nothing we despise more than loose ends. We run a watertight operation. Very delicate work. It the wrong people found out about us before we're ready, it could destroy everything we've worked for. So, you see, we can't allow people to retain compromising information, if they aren't useful to us. And you, Marge, are rapidly becoming less useful by the second."

Unconsciously, Marge's eyes darted all around the hall, looking for an escape route. She really didn't like where this conversation was going…

"So, you're just going to kill me?" she asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling. "Just like that? People will ask questions. I'll be missed. I'm a very successful dog breeder, I'll have you know."

"And Vernon!" Marge exclaimed, suddenly remembering her brother. "He'll be suspicious too. He'll know something's up. Comes to visit with you lot and I turn up dead the next morning. He'll be onto you for sure."

"Oh, Marge, you poor, besotted fool. When I tell your oaf brother that a wizard did it, I won't exactly be lying, will I?"

Mr Smith was brandishing a stick in his left hand. An awfully familiar sort of stick…

"You … you're one of them!" she gasped in horror.

It didn't make sense. Why would a wizard be working to expose other wizards?

"I don't understand," she whispered. "Why are you doing this?"

"Oh, Marge," the wizard replied. "Did you really think I would explain myself to _you_?"

He pointed the wand at Marge's face and whispered, " _Obliviate._ "

"Was that supposed to do something?" Marge spat, adrenaline giving her some of that good old Dursley fighting spirit. "Not a very good wizard, are you?"

"Amazing," the freak murmured, ignoring Marge's jabs. "Oblivium-5 generates a total immunity to the charm. We can proceed to phase two."

He looked up at Marge, and a wicked grin split across his face.

"So sorry, Marge. If that had worked, I would have let you live, but now, I really have no choice but to kill you."

"Please," Marge sobbed. "I'll do anything. Please don't kill me. Who's going to take care of my dogs?"

But the man remained unmoved.

 _"Avada Kedavra"_

The world went black.


	3. ONE - A Stranger Comes to Winterfell

**Ok so third chapter, third new POV, and it's STILL not Harry (sorry). I'll get there in the end I swear. Next chapter. Surely. Not sure how happy I am with this one tbh, so I might edit it a lot late. Unbeta'd as always.**

* * *

 **Chapter I - A Stranger Comes to Winterfell**

 _Eddard_

Though the blood was hours old, it washed off the blade as easily as if it were fresh. One of the wonders of Valyrian Steel; the precious weapons never lost an edge, rusted or showed any other signs of age, and could always be wiped clean with a little water. Ned found that there was no better place to scrub his sword than at the pool in the Winterfell godswood. Here, beneath the watchful gaze of the heat tree, the waters lapped away not only the blood and grime, but also Ned's sins, which had bloodied the blade in the first place.

He always spent time in the godswood after an execution, and today was no different. The wood was a dark and primal place, three acres of oaks and ironwoods, sentinels and pines, untouched by man He took no pleasure in his duty – no man should find it easy to take a life – but always carried it out without complaint. If Ned was not able to end the life himself, then who was he to pass the sentence? That was his way – the old way. The way of the First Men, whose blood still ran strong throughout the North. In the south things may be different, with their seven gods, fancy septs, and southron knights, but here things were simpler. Faith in the old gods still ran strong.

Each castle had a godswood, each godswood had a weirwood heart tree, and each weirwood a carved face; eyes carved by the mythical children of the forest, so the gods could watch over the men and the lands. They had stood since the dawn age, growing over many millennia, and would remain standing for thousands more, out lasting Ned, outlasting Robb, outlasting Robb's children, his children's children and so on and so forth.

Winterfell's godswood was especially old. The castle itself had sprung up around it. But even back then, before Winterfell, the heart tree had been here, with its melancholy face. Those eyes had watched over eight thousand years of Starks. They had seen the genesis of the family, when Brandon the Builder had laid the first stones of Winterfell, and watched the Stark kings rise and fall, until Torrhen had knelt and the Starks became lords instead. The weirwood had sat still even then, proving that the Starks had no divine right as kings. No gods had prevented them from kneeling; Aegon and his dragons had not been struck down. The Starks had remained as Lords Paramount of the North, their former kingdom entirely intact – Torrhen had ensured that they had lost nothing but a bit of pride – and the heat tree as well. Watching over the now Lord Starks and their families, until it had watch of Eddard's father, Lord Rickard, and in turn Eddard himself. Despite being part of the united seven kingdoms of Westeros, with their Andal religion tied so closely to the throne, the old gods had endured in the North.

But that was the North for you; it endured. The old gods endured. The weirwoods endured. The first men had endured, as lords and smallfolk, as mountain clansmen and crannogmen. Winterfell had endured, and with it the Starks.

Eddard would visit his gods after he had taken a life. He would carefully wipe the blood from his blade as he stared into the weeping eyes of the heart tree. He would bare his very soul before his gods, and they would wash his fears and doubts away with the blood. Today, his soul was more troubled than usual.

It wasn't that Ned was not used to taking a life – whilst executions were thankfully not common by any means, he had carried out his fair share in his twelve years as Warden of the North. Only in the North would you find Night's Watch deserters, and there were always criminals who refused to take the black. Men who would rather die then spend the rest of their life in service to a greater cause, shunning any chance to repent of their actions. It was always the worst of the worst that asked for death; the most vile, reprehensible of men. Unrepentant kinslayers, rapists and the like. It was ilk such as these, who had spat at Ned even as he had swung the sword, that he had put to death earlier.

These rapists where why he was so troubled; when Ned had separated their heads from their bodies, he hadn't been able to suppress a small amount of satisfaction. It was wrong to take pleasure in killing, and now he only felt sickened by the act. But back then, in the heat of the moment, he had felt a cathartic wave of gratification sweep over him as the light faded from their eyes, knowing that they would never again plague his lands. The moment had been fleeting, and Ned had immediately returned to his senses, and was left with only shame.

By the pool in the godswood, Ned had managed to quell his troubles. It was over now. The deed was done. It would not do to dwell on it any longer; not when he had far more pressing matters for his time. The North would not govern itself. There were bandits plaguing the northern clansmen, whispers from the Dreadfort that Lord Bolton was scheming to claim some Manderly Land and winter was always coming.

Normally, Ned would be alone beneath the heart tree – find solace in his silent commune with the gods – but today he was joined by his two eldest children. Robb and Jon were three-and-ten now, no strangers to Northern justice; but they too had been shaken by the vile acts of the despicable scum that had died that morning, who had been unrepentant – cursing and spitting at Ned, even as they went to their graves. It was not the first execution they had seen, but it had been by far the most violent.

Ned was proud of them both. They had stood their ground well; refusing to let their discomfort show. Strong and stoic – true Northmen to the bone.

He was especially pleased with Robb. His eldest was developing into an upstanding young man – quick-witted, skilled with the sword and with a sense of honour as strong as his own. Robb would be a fine lord someday. Ned could not have asked for a worthier heir, even if Robb did not share his look. Robb's colouring had never mattered to Ned. His Tully look may be a point of contention to some of his more vocal bannermen, but Ned would not have cared if his son had been born with as ass' tail, so long as he was hale and healthy. Besides, the traces of the North were present enough, once one looked past Robb's Tully red hair and sky-blue eyes. The Stark linage was present in the shape of his nose, the turn of his cheeks and his stocky build, which reminded Ned of his brother, who had also once been heir to Winterfell.

Robb shared his southern colouring with all his siblings, save Arya, Ned's youngest girl – the spitting image of Ned's sister. And Jon, but that was different. That was to be expected. Jon, after all, did not have a Tully mother.

Jon and Arya shared a look that was more classically Stark – the brown hair, long face and grey eyes that Ned and his siblings had once shared as well. A small part of Ned was glad that the look would continue through the future generations, even if they would not bear the Stark name. Arya would take a new name upon her wedding, of course, and Jon would never be a proper Stark. He was cursed to bear the name Snow – the name gifted to all the bastards of the North, forever reminding them of their parents' sin. That did not stop Ned from loving Jon as much as any of his children, despite the expectation of the realm, and – to Ned's dismay – the wishes of his wife.

Jon too was fast becoming a fine lad, one that Ned was also immensely proud of. A bit sullen at times perhaps, but that could only be expected – despite all of Ned's wishes there remained a gap between Jon and the rest of the family; the gap of his birth, which could never be filled. Still, Ned knew that Robb would never be able to name a more loyal friend, a more steadfast supporter. They had taken to each other immediately the first time they met as babes, and had been inseparable since then. They had grown up as twins – sharing a room as recently as last year. As thick as thieves they had spent their days amongst the castle grounds – playing in the courtyards, training with Ser Rodrik, taking lessons with the maester and Ned himself, and causing mischief amongst the servants. Robb had been the instigator more often than not, much to Cat's disbelief. Ned's lady wife liked to believe that Jon's bastard blood had leading Robb astray. The mischief had been harmless, and both were good children at heart. _They have grown so much_ , Ned thought, _yet they still have so much more to learn. I only hope that I will be around long enough to guide them._

"How could someone be like that … that vile … that disgusting?" asked Robb, startling Ned from his musing. The question was one that Ned had asked himself, that he had no hope of understanding or answering. Part of him was glad for it; if he understood and sympathised with the motivations of those men, he'd be as sick as they were.

"There are many reasons why a man might commit a crime," Ned told his sons, turning his answer into a lesson for them. "A starving man will have no qualms stealing food, and a poor man can easily become a pickpocket. Men will kill for revenge, over slights to their honour and threats to their families. Yet there are some who are broken inside. Men who kill for sport, who force themselves upon unwilling women, with no justification for their actions – there is something wrong with them; something sick in their minds. No sane man can understand their actions. Take heart that you struggle to understand their motives; it proves you are not depraved like them."

"But still," Robb murmured. "To do what they did, and be _pleased_?"

Ned let the question hang. It was best that Robb thought about this himself, for a time.

Silence returned to the godswood as easily as it had been broken. Only the trees spoke now, the wind rustling through the dense canopy above their heads. The eyes of the heart tree remained staring as always, but for a moment Ned thought they looked proud. He was imagining it, to be sure, but he hoped the gods approved of his lesson. It was a good one; one Robb and Jon needed to learn. Some men were beyond saving.

"Father…"

Jon spoke now, his voice timid and uneasy. "Is it wrong … am I wrong … for being _glad_ that they died?"

Ah. This was a much harder question. Ned truly did not know the answer himself and yet, staring into Jon's troubled grey eyes, he knew he had to say something.

"Jon, I ask myself those exact words. It is a question that we may never really know the answer to. What do you think; are you sickened by your thoughts?"

If Ned could not give Jon a good answer, he could at least show him that he wasn't alone in his troubles. Jon sat back, pondering the question. Robb did as well. They would be fine men, Ned decided. He had raised them well.

Before either of the boys could think of an answer, they were distracted by a loud popping noise. The sound was sudden and abrupt, and unlike anything Ned had ever heard before. Before he could even being ponder what could have caused it, a splash erupted from the pond behind him.

Water leapt all over Ned's back, soaking his furs. It was icy cold – the pool, deep as it may be, was not connected to any of Winterfell's hot springs – which only quickened Ned's reaction time. He spun round, grabbing Ice, ready face any foe that dared threaten his family in his own castle. The black waters, normally tranquil, were rippling with rage for being distributed and a figure was beginning to sink below the surface.

"By the gods, he fell from the sky!" Robb exclaimed, but the words barely registered to Ned. He was too busy staring at the unconscious boy, who didn't look a day older than Robb or Jon, as he disappeared beneath the dark water.

 _Oh well,_ Ned thought. _I'm already wet anyway._ He dived into the water.

Luckily, the child was small, and silky material of his garb was not too waterlogged. Once Ned had grabbed a hold of the him, it was simply a matter of wrapping his arm his waist, and kicking up towards the surface.

Within a minute, Ned was back beside the pond, laying the boy across the misshapen roots of a nearby oak tree.

"He fell from the sky," hissed Robb in amazement. "The _sky_!"

"No," said Jon. "He appeared out of the air, below the canopy. He barely fell ten feet."

"What? That's impossible."

"I saw it with mine own eyes."

Ned ignored them both, instead opting to check the boy for a heartbeat. It did not matter how the boy got here. He was here now, and that was important. The could puzzle out his origins later, once they made sure he was alive enough to answer their questions. The pulse was there, thought it was weak.

"He's still breathing," declared Ned. "Robb, Jon, fetch Maester Luwin. Tell him to come at once."

Neither boy made a move, too transfixed by the strange new arrival.

"Go! Now!" he hissed, and they both soon sped off towards the castle, disappearing amongst the trees, leaving Ned alone with the strange child.

The child was short for his age, if Ned had to guess. He'd pin his age somewhere between Robb's and Sansa's – perhaps two-and-ten? The boy's hair was slick with water, so it might normally be brown, not the black it appeared. There was an odd lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. It looked red and angry. Ned wondered how the boy had received it.

The child's clothes were odder still. He wore a fine black robe, with a red and gold lion crest affixed above his heart. Those were Lannister colours and the lion a Lannister creature, yet the boy looked like no Lannister, Ned had ever seen. His hair was the wrong colour, for one. He could not be a Lannister servant; the robe was too fine for him to be anything but highborn. He had an odd long piece of fabric tied around his neck, the ends stretching down along his chest. It was coloured red and gold too, and looked too fine to not be part of his dress. Ned had never heard of any fashion like it – not even in tales of Dorne or Essos.

The boy's right hand was clutched tightly around a fine stick, around a foot long. It was well polished, the base of it carved into a handle. Was it a toy of some kind? It couldn't be a weapon – the end wasn't even pointed. Whatever it was, it was obviously important to the boy, for his grip was strong even in his unconscious state.

His other hand was clenched around another trinket. Ned wasn't sure what, but there was a golden chain spilling from the fist. Fine gold too; the chain was beaded together expertly. It looked like it belonged to a necklace of some sort, and was broken at the ends. Had the boy ripped it from around someone's neck?

The strangest part about the boy's garb were his eye coverings. Two circles of glass – one for each eye, which were surrounded and joined by a material Ned had never seen the like of before. It was smooth to the touch, yet was no wood or metal he knew of. Two prongs of the material extend from either side, down to the child's ears, to hold the contraption in place. Ned to make out tiny hinges at where they met each circle. Hinges that small must must have been made by a skilled craftsman.

Whoever this boy was, he did not lack for coin. _Unless,_ the thought crept unbidden into his head, _he stole them. Unless his is a thief – his robes could be stolen from Casterly Rock for all I know!_ But if he was stealing from the Lannisters, why sneak into Winterfell? It didn't add up.

How did he sneak into Winterfell, for that matter? He had fallen into the pond, but from where? It was as if he had appeared out of thin air. But that was ridiculous.

Ned heard feet scrambling over the leaves and roots of the forest floor, and soon enough, Robb and Jon burst back into the clearing, the Maester a few feet behind. His wife, Lady Catelyn was with them.

"Whatever is going on, Ned?" she asked, her eyes searching Ned's face for an answer. "These two run bursting into the keep, calling for the Maester, bowling over Hullen and the cook, crying some nonsense about boys falling from skies … who is that?" Catelyn paused, catching sight of the newcomer in Ned's arms.

"I do not yet know," said Ned, even as Robb began bursting about how it was _not_ nonsense, and Hullen was fine, thank you very much.

"Master Luwin, if you please." Ned nodded to the boy as Robb prattled on. From the sounds of it, he and Jon had roused half the castle. The maester bent down, and began to examine the stranger.

"He seems healthy enough," said Luwin, after finishing his examination. "We should get him in the castle though, before he catches a chill."

The maester eyed Ned's dripping wet hair. "You too, my Lord. It's nearing sunset, and it'll be cold out tonight.

Ned nodded his acceptance. "Robb, Jon, help me carry the boy. Luwin, Cat, prepare some chambers in the East Wing. But keep it quiet. Until we know more about him, the fewer people we trouble with him the better."

He looked pointedly at Jon and Robb. "That goes for you two as well. Don't go running to Bran and Arya about this. Not yet."

When no-one moved to obey his commands for the second time that evening, Ned could not help but be a little frustrated. "Am I the Lord of Winterfell or not?" he ground out, teeth clenched.

That got them moving quick enough.

With the help of his sons, transporting the sleeping boy was an easy task. By the time they made it to the castle, Cat and Luwin had set up the necessary chamber, and the boy was stripped of his wet clothes and laid beneath some warm blankets. Ned changed too, into some warm furs. It felt quite good to finally be in dry clothes again and he was finally read to tackle the questions posed by the boy's appearance.

He sent Jon into the godswood to retrieve Ice. Thankfully the boy left without a complaint, though Ned knew he would rather stay. But if Catelyn insisted on being present, it was best Jon was otherwise occupied.

"He didn't really fall from the sky, did he?" his wife asked, staring down at the boy. In amongst the blankets of the bed he looked a great deal younger and quite peaceful. His hair, now dry, had turned out to be black after all; it was an unruly mess, a tangled raven's nest spiking out in every direction.

"I wasn't watching," said Ned dryly. "I'm afraid my back was turned."

"I saw it," Robb cut in, sticking to his story. "He appeared out of the air, and fell into the godswood pool."

"Robb," Catelyn chided. Her voice was reproving, her disbelief evident in her tone. "Boys do not simply fall from the sky."

"I know what I saw," his son insisted.

"This one may have, Catelyn," Ned added. He glanced down at the boy and then at Robb" Or he may have fallen from the branches of the Heart Tree. However, he got here, he is a stranger to Winterfell."

The three Starks started down at the boy, as he slept on, unaware of the confusion he was causing.

"That device on his robes," Catelyn finally said. "A red and gold lion. Is he Part of House Lannister?"

It was Maester Luwin, who answered, holding the robes in question. "You would not be amiss for thinking so, my lady. But the design is slightly different from any House Lannister and beneath it – well, these are not the Lannister words. I confess, I've never seen the tongue they're written in. The alphabet it's in looks similar to ours, but not exactly. There are several differences. If this boy is trying to be a Lannister, he is a poor imitation."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You believe he is a mummer then? A catspaw, sent to sow discord between us and the South, by pretending to spy for the lions. Half the realm knows of my lord husband's disdain for Lannisters."

Catelyn spoke truly; of all the great houses of Westeros, Ned was least fond of House Lannister, save for perhaps House Greyjoy, who had actually risen up in rebellion. Ned had never forgiven Lord Tywin for his actions during the sack of King's Landing at the end of Robert's Rebellion. The look on his face when he presented the bodies of those children to Robert…

"If he was meant to turn us against the Lannisters," Robb spoke up. "You'd think he'd have a more accurate disguise. If we could see through it this easily, he's a very poor spy."

Robb was right. If the child truly was a Lannister spy, he would not be wearing their house colours, imitation or no. If he was _pretending_ to be such, his Lannister garb should have been perfect, so they would have had no cause for suspicion, and hoodwinked more easily.

"Perhaps we should consider that the child is not from any great house of Westeros," suggested Luwin in a thoughtful tone. Ned glanced down the boy again. It made sense. "His style of dress is unusual, unlike any westerosi fashion I know of. Yet, these robes are too fine for him to be anything but highborn. This … eye-glass … is particularly well crafted, but the design is unfamiliar and its purpose unclear to me."

The maester held the aforementioned item up for Robb and Catelyn to inspect. "Some of the elder maesters in the citadel use circles of glass to aid in their reading – akin to a myrish lens – perhaps these serve a similar purpose. Yet, the material around the glass … I've never seen the like of it before."

No-one had any answers for Luwin. The eye-glass contraption and the robes were are as strange to them as they were to him.

"That scar," Catelyn murmured, bending down over the bed to better inspect the child's head. "A cut like that would have been made with purpose. _Poor child_. Could it be a brand of some sort?"

"A brand?" repeated Robb, eyes widening in horror.

"It certainly seems deliberate, yes," the maester agreed. "A lightning-bolt scar. The lightning bolt is actually very similar to one of the ancient runes of the first men. If only we knew what it meant."

"It seems," Ned said, looking the other three in the eyes as he spoke. "It seems that we will find no more answers here tonight, not unless the boy wakes. Perhaps it is best we all retired, and thought about this with fresh minds come the morn."

Catelyn and Luwin were quick to agree with him. Robb was not so easily dissuaded. "I'll stay, and watch him in case he wakes. He might be confused, and we don't want him to run."

Ned sighed. A watchful eye would not be remiss, but he was hesitant to leave his son in the company of a stranger with unknown intentions, even if it was a child.

"Alright," Ned relented. "But Jory shall stand guard by the door. You shall inform me the moment he wakes. I will be present when he is first questioned."

Once Robb nodded his acceptance, the others left the room. Ned couldn't help but glance back at the boy, as he stood in the doorway. Ned had another idea of the child's origins; one he did not dare voice in front of his wife, for her love of the Seven.

If Robb and Jon were speaking true, and the child had actually appeared out of thin air, then he had appeared beneath the branches of the heart tree. If that wasn't a sign from the old gods, Ned did not what could be. The possibility terrified Ned. If the boy had been sent by the gods – as a champion of sorts – what could be so dire in Wintefell's future, that the gods themselves would seek to interfere?

Ned would sleep uneasy tonight.


End file.
